


A High Altar Of Heaped-Up Stones

by Pradelle



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Feelings, Other, Pining, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pradelle/pseuds/Pradelle
Summary: In the old days, the villagers had warned little Blóðhundur, the first of their kind: do not anger Freyja, because even though she may bless your love, she also decides who dies in battle.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	A High Altar Of Heaped-Up Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first work for this fandom, I got the idea a few days ago and it wouldn't leave me, so I had to write it. English isn't my first language so I hope I didn't make too many mistakes. I would also like to gift this work to all the wonderful people from my Miragehound server. Enjoy!

_“He made me a high altar of heaped-up stones:_

_The gathered rocks have grown all bloody,_

_And he reddened them again with the fresh blood of cows.”_

— _Hyndluljóð_ , Andy Orchard translation.

* * *

In a quite unforeseen twist of events, it requires several decades, a revived bloodsport and a troublesome squadmate for Bloodhound to fully understand how love and war can be so intricately bound.

In the old days, when the only blood shed on the lands of Talos was that of the members of a small community of settlers and the creatures they hunted, Bloodhound had heard tales spoken from mouth to mouth around a sacrificial fire or above the feast celebrating the summer solstice, shared like the wisdom of an old sage but with an enthusiasm close to that of a gossiper. Tales of forbidden devotion which typically ended in tragedy; love acting as the destructive precursor of wars, or the violence of said wars putting an end to a blossoming romance that had been doomed from the start.

In reaction to these stories, the villagers had warned little Blóðhundur, the first of their kind, _do not anger Freyja, because even though she may bless your love, she also decides who dies in battle_.

And the hunter, still so small but more mature than the average child had listened, nodded and frowned at the confusion those words had induced in them. This had been an introduction to the duality of the patron goddess of love, something that had prompted them to ponder the oddity of their beliefs: how could the deity of love also be associated with something as ruthless and unforgiving as war?

They had known war, too young, standing on wobbly legs with blood dripping from their clothes, frost a treacherous and hostile caress against their skin, making its way into their lungs and slowly choking them from the inside with the viciousness of a snake constricting around their throat. And, ultimately, they had clutched their axe and stood honored and victorious over the corpse of the beast that had taken everything away from them.

That was when they had gotten a first taste of vengeance, born from the loss of the sole person they had left, displayed in the bitterness of hacking at the body of the dead creature, slicing through its skin and wondering why, why now, why him, why, why, _why._

They had known love, too, but it had always been ripped from them before they could truly make something out of it. They recalled the feeling of watching their uncle’s coffin drift over the waves, of being mesmerized by the flames feeding on the wood and the flesh, rising up in the sky, the dark and heavy smoke slowly coloring the golden sunset into a grim scenery of mourning. And then, the sadness and the grief, eventually fading away into the somewhat comforting knowledge that their uncle was once again making one with the earth.

Bloodhound had experienced, in their tumultuous life, many emotions.

But they hadn’t known pure, unblemished romantic _love_.

In the years that had followed, they had found out that they were incapable of parting with the words spoken by the villagers, a sweet warning laced with the care and affection they had held for the child but which meaning was lost to them. They still couldn’t fathom the bond between the two opposite notions of love and war. 

That was until they met him.

He had joined the games a few months before them. A golden boy, all smiles and jokes, at first glance wrapped in an almost burlesque ensemble of buffoonery and lightheartedness; every single feature part of the charm he undeniably had.

Undoubtedly, a _loudmouth_ , someone that many had been quick to brand as a nuisance despite his flamboyant personality; or maybe because of it. In the arena, a competent and competitive ally that certainly knew his way around guns, but also one that had started making a habit of shattering their concentration, trading the certainty of an easy and safe victory for a few seconds of fooling around, a joke that usually ended up almost getting their squad wiped out.

An individual that Bloodhound would have usually been all too happy to ignore.

And yet, with him, it had never even been an option.

When they had first laid eyes on him, they had acknowledged, because how could they not with the way he annoyingly but also adorably bragged about it, his self-appointed trademark: his beauty. Dark locks falling over one side of his face like a cascade of ivy, skin bathed in the warm sun of Solace and his eyes, his _eyes_ , often teasing and puerile, but sharp and cunning during fights with an intelligence hidden behind that many tended to overlook.

Upon being paired together for the first time, they had noticed his strength in the arena; like them, how he confidently made use of technology to trick and surprise the enemy. The risks he took for his squadmates, sometimes foolish but necessary, and the kindness he showed whenever he offered them half of his ammunition because their magazine was empty, even though he was running low on it, too.

Oh, how he probably honored his gods, whoever they were.

With time Bloodhound had learned to see beyond the gentle lie, the true mirage that resided in the wall he had built around himself, the man he pretended to be in front of the spotlights. A man that didn’t exist; a sweet, sweet illusion, but what was even sweeter was the soul hiding underneath and that became visible whenever the fog around it started dissipating.

He had been an intriguing riddle from the start because they couldn’t understand how his vibrant personality wasn’t colliding with the sadness he visibly kept buried within himself, locked away in a chest which key had been thrown and left to rust into a deep ocean of deceit; a chimera of blood and bones, euphoria and anguish, illusions and disillusions.

He was a wonder, really. A treat to their eyes, a conundrum to their mind, and a dangerous threat to their fragile heart.

Resigned, Bloodhound had allowed themself to bath in the new sensation of tenderness they felt for this man. Watching him, flowers sprouting into their lungs, slowly replacing the perpetual coldness left by the frost more than two decades ago. _Watching_ him, baffled, beguiled, beloved.

They couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment they had fallen for him, simply because there wasn’t any. This fondness had been shaped by a tangle of moments, words and small gestures that had only made sense when, during a match they didn’t remember, they had abruptly stopped moving to look at him, thinking, _gods help me, I think I am in love with him_.

Despite this realization not being as earth-shattering as they had always thought love would be, they had turned to Freyja in a moment of bewilderment, once again wondering what this was all about. How could this man stir so many disparate emotions within them and most importantly, from the same question that had bothered them since their childhood, why love, why war?

They didn’t understand.

And yet, _yet_ —

Yet, there is love in the way they go to war for him. They look out for him in the heat of the battle, their mind in a frenzy while they dash through the smoke, their eyes glowing a dangerous shade of red as they ransack the battlefield to find him; the way their blood curls when they hear a shot quickly followed by a groan of pain that is so very human, so very _him_ and terrifying to their ears.

When fate separates them by putting them on opposite teams, there is love in the way their gaze lingers on his face, an eye scouting through the optic of their sniper rifle. They watch, they _guard_ , unbeknown to him, their finger pressed on the trigger but not pulling it yet, even though they could have fired a dozen times already knowing that the bullet would have reached its intended target every single time.

And, undeniably, because nothing exists without a complementary opposite, like gods and giants, there is war in the way they love him, fierce and flaring, a battlefield on which their feelings lay bare, raw and so very exposed to the eyes of the other legends, of the dead and of the gods.

It is war, the way their heart aches for him.

Once they become conscious of it, it doesn’t take long for them to realize they’ve never known a love like that before. Something that tugs hard at their insides and makes them burn with a passion that only equals the warm fire glowing in their heart whenever, after a match that didn’t end the way it ought to have, he gently brushes a hand against their arm, the usual grin gone from his face, and asks them with genuine worry, _are you alright?_

And no matter the shape of the fire consuming them, Bloodhound burns, burns, and _burns_.

They want to reach out, brush their fingers against the contusions on his face and repair the cut that was made in his holosuit by a sharp knife that came a little too close to his heart for their liking. They want to kneel and put their beating heart into his hands, like an offering at a loving shrine built upon blood-infused candles, because they have decided it shall be the safest their soul will ever be. And yet, they want _so much_ that no offering, no token of devotion could accurately convey the way he makes them feel.

Initially, when they become aware of it, of what it means, they’re terrified. Because soon after comes the inevitable knowledge that they would slaughter the entire arena in the blink of an eye just to keep him safe. This is the kind of love that makes them as strong as it weakens them.

But rather than witnessing it die like winter does when spring begins to blossom forth from the ground, it lingers in the back of their head, the roots taking, sinking into their mind and gripping at their vulnerable heart. Then it grows, and it _thrives_ , because the more they look at him, the more they’re soothed by the reasoning that everything is exactly as the gods intended it to be.

Him, a sweet offering on the altar of their essence; dark amber eyes, honey-colored clothes, his blood spilling in battle like the wine brewing in the chalice of the heroes, and when he’s relieved or sad, golden tears pouring on his face like the fluids flowing in the veins of the ancient gods.

And Bloodhound realizes that for all their wisdom, the villagers were wrong about one thing.

There is nothing to fear about the patron goddess of love and war.

These two sides of their adoration aren’t at odds, but are complementary in their existence. The ardor and the violence of their passion, against the sweetness and the tenderness of their anger whenever harm comes to Elliott. She, who shines over the sea, is meant to teach the harsh lessons of love, its elation and its pain, the way Bloodhound's love fights on the battleground of their fragile existence, a reminder of how exactly _human_ they are.

Later, when they stand bright and triumphant under the buoyant sun and above the grass woven with blooms, tasting the euphoria of victory after a hard-earned battle, they stare and they _see_ him, covered in bruises but smiling at everyone, smiling at _them_ like nothing matters but the present moment, like no matter the fight, the fallout of the battle is worth the struggle.

And it all makes sense.

Because in the end, when everything is said and done, Bloodhound knows that beyond honor and faith, the only war that is worth fighting is that of love.

**Author's Note:**

> We have a lovely Miragehound server, come join us! ❤ https://discord.gg/VFvAMCx


End file.
